


Layers

by GioseleLouise



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Depression, Different Take on Kim "Vague Motivations" Kitsuragi, Harry Gets Better Eventually, Jean Trusts Harry Eventually, Kim Trusts Harry Eventually, M/M, Martinaise from Kim's POV, Mental Illness, Oral Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25996432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GioseleLouise/pseuds/GioseleLouise
Summary: After a tough day at work, two strangers meet in a bar. A few weeks later, Lieutenant Kitsuragi meets The Man in Sunglasses.Unfortunately for them, the resemblance is more than a passing coincidence.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois & Jean Vicquemare, Harry Du Bois & Kim Kitsuragi, Kim Kitsuragi/Jean Vicquemare
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	Layers

**Author's Note:**

> I'm big on this ship & giving Harry's mental illness some gravity. Bail now if it's not your thang cause both will be the focus of this fic! 
> 
> Jean has a distinct way of talking (fragments, smooth prose with dry delivery, some obscure words) and I try to be true to his in-game style. Additionally, I’m deviating from how I’ve written Kim in my previous fics. His in-game motivations are practically nonexistent and I used the space to make him more opinionated and explore his whole "self-control" thing. Most of the fic will follow scenes from the game so hopefully the portrayals line up. Lastly, Jean is spacey in the prologue for various reasons.
> 
> Warning that the prologue is **_pure smut_**. Non-Smut starts at Chapter One. 
> 
> Sorries for the long note. Hope you enjoy!

The bar Kim settles on is tucked between two apartments at the edge of Central Jamrock. It’s not a cop bar, it’s not even a  _ nice _ bar, but it’s busy, and it’s the exact opposite of where he’s supposed to be.

_ Lieutenant  _ Kitsuragi is supposed to be at a gastropub in Grand Couron. Precinct 57 liked to celebrate and tonight was the twenty-year anniversary of a White Collar Lieutenant, a man Kim had interacted with once in his career and whose name he had forgotten soon after they met. Lt. Kitsuragi is supposed to be playing nice with the rest of the Homicides Department. Supposed to be rubbing shoulders with the upper brass and putting on a good show of support and camaraderie; another body in a sea of solidarity to celebrate twenty years within the force.

_ Kim  _ Kitsuragi is exhausted. According to his time card, he’s worked fifty-nine hours this week - all fine and well if it wasn’t only _ Thursday _ .

Cradling his drink, Kim wonders how many more weeks he can keep working like this. Lieutenants are already expected to co-manage their departments and lead in case load. Expectations not unlike burning a candle at both ends. He's been somehow managing - sacrificing his personal life during the five years he's held the role. But coordinating the Homicides Department through a sting was like chucking the candle into an open fire and expecting the wax to hold for several months. Because Kim can work cases, and he can manage laziness, incompetence, arrogance, and disorganization, but dealing with all of that at once,  _ and  _ getting these people to  _ work together effectively _ on a sting...well. 

That was just unfair. 

Names and files and nothing but  _ pure RCM information _ have dominated his waking thoughts, invaded his dreams, and commandeered almost every single human interaction he’s had since this op landed in his department’s lap. Ideas of a night to himself were half-formed when Kim announced that the department would be working through their weekend (again). Fully-formed when he left his orange bomber in the Precinct. Getting off a stop before his destination was easy: the last step of his commitment.

Now he was _here_ , his stomach buzzing from a Whiskey Neat; another anonymous patron in a nameless bar. It would be a pleasant spot if it didn’t _reek_ of stale beer. But it’s well lit and there’s enough people to crowd the bar, but not enough to drone out the radio sportcast. It’s not bad. For the first time in a long time, he feels like a regular guy. No one to disappoint and no one to disappoint him. No paperwork due or interviews to moderate. No one to ply him with questions about next steps, or contingency plans, or status updates, or disciplinary actions for subordinates, or-

He can just  _ be _ .

Freedom is sweet luxury and it's an easy decision to order something indulgent. When is the next time he’ll get to do  _ whatever _ he wants?

The bartender ignores him to service a larger group and Kim is surprised by how little he minds. It’s  _ novel  _ to be casually passed over. He automatically expects to be awkwardly prioritized or scrutinized for his halogen marks. Says a lot about the hours he’s working. 

The second bartender is condescending, maybe; she stares at Kim from down her nose and fatigue drips from her words. Kim can relate. 

"Do you have any specials?" He asks.

“Last section on the menu covers the specials, sir.” 

Her expression speaks for her.  _ I’m not reciting them _ .

Well, he thinks. He's not going anywhere anyway.

She skulks towards her friendlier colleague to help pass steins to a boisterous group. The man sitting next to Kim gives him a side-long glance.

“Don't bother." The stranger eyes the ream-thick menu pityingly. "The list is six pages long. And the specials here are shit."

“I assume you’re speaking as someone that knows?” Kim jokes. After twenty years in the RCM, it’s instinct to scan the people he interacts with. Kim takes in long black hair, attentive grey eyes, and scars that peak above a thick beard. He's handsome, and his crisp white dress shirt is casually unbuttoned past his clavicle.

It's a good look.

Desperate for an interaction that isn’t about homicides, he adds, “Fortunately I’m not too hungry. Are the drink specials here any good?”

They both glance at Kim's second Whiskey Neat - a little less than half full - sitting between them. The man gives him an odd look and raises his own glass to his lips. Kim notices the curve of his bicep through his sleeve.

“I’m honestly not the best guy to ask,” says the stranger, his tone not unfriendly.

"Humor me?"

Kim feels bold. Maybe it's the buzz of whiskey or maybe he's too exhausted to care. No one in Jamrock knows him anyway and he’s in a mood to indulge. God knows he deserves it.

When was the last time he talked to a man about something other than the RCM?

“Or, I could order both of us another round of what you have,” Kim proposes.

The stranger shoots him a wry smile. “Is this a bribe?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

The man gives him a heavy-lidded stare, amused at the edges, and he tips his drink towards Kim. Bubbles dislodge from the edge of his glass and float to the clear meniscus. “It’s flavoured seltzer. I don’t drink, but I’m thinking you’re looking for  _ something  _ to take the edge off.”

The words caress Kim, even if their speaker keeps his hands on his glass. And God, he’s  _ missed _ this. Forgot how fun it is to flirt with a stranger. He’s been focused on work for far too long. Can’t remember the last time his pulse raced from something that wasn’t police related.

“Shall I order another round of whiskey and seltzer, or were you interested in something else?” Kim asks.

“I’d be happy with a name.”

Kim only hesitates for a moment. “You can call me John Shao.”

The stranger raises his brows and Kim stiffens. John Shao is a generic name - a racist permutation of “Raoul Revachol'' or “Jim Jamrock” - crudely tagging Seolites. Most strangers were stupid enough to take him at face value. Made wearing an alter ego easier; ties could be cut easily if he decided the person wasn't worth more than one night.

“What a crazy coincidence," says the man, bone dry. He gives Kim a knowing look. "We share a name. But _yours_ is spelled much differently.”

The corners of Kim's lips curl up. Not ignorant then, but not pushy either.

"Nice to meet you, Jean."

The other man sips his drink. "You too.”

"John," Kim reminds him.

"I am  _ not _ calling you that."

Kim smiles in earnest. Wants to be difficult, so he drinks and lets the silence drag. He's not giving his real name. Not yet. Even if his potential lay isn't a brainless racist, it’s not a tough bar to cross. “Stranger” is only a step removed from “asshole,” and always within the realm of “blackmailer.” 

Jean stays quiet. He nurses his drink with both elbows on the table, and that’s fine with Kim because it lets him admire the man’s wide shoulders.

He always had a weakness for fit men.

The silence is semi-comfortable with the bar bustling around them. Couples lean over each other, friends laugh, glass strikes wood as drinks move, and the bartenders recite orders over the steady radio. Jean catches Kim staring and understanding flows through mirrored smiles. The other man’s eyes grow thoughtful; he considers Kim for a moment, then his expression settles.

“Do you live close by?” Jean asks casually. The real question shimmers underneath intent grey eyes.  _ Let’s go to your place? _ It’s not forward; general enough for Kim to steer the conversation in a different direction, if it’s unwelcome.

“Unfortunately my apartment is by the harbor. I believe it’s a twenty minute bus ride from here.” Kim sighs. He’s always been awkward about this. “Perhaps you know somewhere quieter we can get a drink...?”

Not Kim’s best work. Jean’s lip twitches and his voice is a touch teasing. “I can make you a drink. I live two blocks from here."

As if a man that doesn’t drink would keep alcohol in his apartment. But an invitation is an invitation, and Kim is just glad Jean isn’t turning away after that delivery. Still, he has to wonder if he’s making a mistake. Police instinct kicks in, sounding warnings of psychopaths and serial killers. Reminds him of how  _ reckless  _ he’s being.

A desperate voice in his head hisses,  _ When was the last time you did something  _ fun _? _

As if he didn’t risk his life at work every day. As if he wasn’t worn ragged keeping it together twenty-four-seven. As if he’s  _ never done this before. _ Plus, it’s been ages. Almost a  _ year _ , if he wants to be depressing about it.

Kim takes a large gulp of his drink, hoping to loosen up. Meets Jean’s attentive gaze with an easy smile and tries very hard to ignore the way this man's attention flips his stomach.

“Lead the way.”

Jean herds him through the crowded bar. It’s no hardship to follow the man; Kim gets a chance to check him out. Perhaps Jean knows he looks good from behind because his coat stays slung on his arm until they leave the bar.

“That’s kind of a thin parka,” Jean observes once they’re outside. His eyes linger on Kim’s body a second longer before he slings his coat over his broad shoulders and leads them away from the bar. “I guess you guys by the harbor don’t get cold?”

Kim shrugs. "The whiskey will keep me warm," he says, his voice is steady enough that he can believe his own words.

Kim tells himself that the added layer of his RCM jacket is  _ nothing _ compared to what its loss has given him tonight. What it  _ will  _ give him tonight. Kim balls his hands in his pockets to keep from shivering in the crisp February air. His shoulders get cold easily. 

Two blocks is a quick walk, but one made longer by the palpable tension. Kim tries to enjoy the silence. Focuses on the glances they throw each other and the click of their shoes on the cracked pavement. He wants this.

But something doesn’t sit right.

Either the game has changed or Jean is brazenly, foolishly reckless. The man would be, Kim reflects, a  _ terrible  _ police officer. 

Kim’s past hookups wanted his full name, false as it was, and then some. He’s used to shrugging off the “Where do you work”s and “When did you move here”s and “What do you like to do”s. Deflecting questions is second nature. The lack of it is like a weight in the back of his throat.

And what does that say about Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, that he’s decided to follow this man anyway?

Keys jingle. No stairs; Jean lives on the first floor of a nondescript three story apartment. The door opens into a pitch black suite and Kim forces himself to follow the man inside.

Instinct has him scanning Jean’s apartment for red flags as soon as the lights are on. It’s clean and simply-furnished with a tasteful painting above the couch. Nothing crazy, but Kim holds in his breath like something's about to fall from the ceiling. He flinches as Jean throws their coats behind a chair; the silent space amplifies the rustle of fabric. Glass clinks as Jean pulls two cups from a cabinet and fills them with tap water.

It’s  _ so  _ quiet.

“Here’s that promised drink,” jokes Jean as he hands Kim a glass and takes a sip from his.

"Thanks." Kim scans the room over the rim of his cup. The water is cool and surprisingly refreshing; he hadn't realized he was so thirsty. He tries to enjoy the sensation. Tries to savor being alone with a man for once in almost a  _ year _ . But apprehension crawls over him, breathing on the back of his neck, wrapping around his body like-

“Everything alright?” Jean takes a step back. He glances at the door, as if reminding Kim where the exit is. “Not too late to back out.”

“Is everything alright with _you_?” Kim wants to ask. “You don’t know anything about me, yet you’ve let me in your apartment. Shouldn’t you _vet_ me to make sure I won't rob you blind or _kill_ you? Shouldn’t you at least care about my _name_?” The words don’t leave his mouth - offering advice is _not_ his place; God knows it’s not the time.

But five years in Homicides have changed Kim - carved caution into his bones. It’s not something he can easily shake off, no matter how hard he tries. And he’s been trying all night.

People have  _ died _ being more careful than this man. Kim deals with the proof everyday.

“I have work on my mind.” Kim says carefully. He takes a deep breath and wills his tension to leave on the exhale. Scans Jean’s broad shoulders and the hint of muscle under his dress shirt and  _ wants _ so badly to just relax and stop thinking like an officer. 

Like his attempts at optimizing his department, things don’t go his way.

“But I’ll be fine, work is often on my mind.” Kim tells him.  _ I’ll get over it eventually _ .

Jean considers him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“What?”

“Yeah.” The other man’s expression doesn’t change. He finishes the last bit of his water and slides his glass on the counter. “Would it help?”

“I…” Kim’s brain skips. What an odd question. One that he's not used to and it throws him off for a quick moment. "...I assume you work as a psychiatrist?"

Jean snorts. “You can say that. Just _without_ the training. If I actually knew what to do, things wouldn’t be…” He cuts himself off with a sigh. Gestures towards Kim’s empty glass. “Nevermind. More water?”

Kim shakes his head but holds his glass out anyway. Jean smiles and steps into Kim’s space; takes the glass out of Kim's hand and deliberately brushes against his fingers. Kim keeps his breath from catching. Barely registers the sound of glass sliding on wood.

_ Aren’t you being reckless?  _ Growls a nagging voice. Kim grimaces.  _ This situation is exactly like last week’s case- _

"You're uncomfortable." Jean points out; he steps away. "We don't have to-"

“No, I’m fine.” He reaches for Jean and Kim’s breath  _ does  _ catch because the muscles on Jean’s forearm are  _ firm _ . “It’s just- I don’t mean to sound out of line, but shouldn’t you have made sure I was sane? Most people consider their homes…” Kim struggles for the appropriate word. _ Important? Sacred?  _ But it's hard to think when there’s a hand on his waist and Jean is looking at him with such mirth.

“ _ This _ is what was bothering you? I’m not following  _ Best Practices _ ? Did we need a permission slip? Forms submitted thirty days prior in triplicate?"

Jean laughs and Kim’s lips twitch despite it all. A part of him disapproves. Kim is justified; there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. This man doesn't  _ understand _ what Kim deals with on a daily basis.

A bigger part of him wants to shut off his brain and lean into the hand on his waist. Wants to focus on the sparks rippling through his skin as the hand wraps around his back. Kim can make out Jean’s individual eyelashes. Trace his scars. Feel the heat from Jean’s skin. 

No one’s been this close in  _ months _ .

“You should be more careful with who you bring home. Is all,” Kim tells him, proud that he only sounds a little ruffled. Jean’s eyes trail to Kim’s mouth and Kim leans forward, his voice teasing. “An address is precious information.”

Jean smiles, but there’s no joy in it. "Nothing’s precious in Revachol," he says and he kisses him.

Jean tastes sweet; it’s the seltzer, soda with a hint of fruit. Beard scuffs around Kim’s mouth, warmth pushes into his body, and Kim hums. He loves it. Missed the feeling of a man pressed against him. Missed the heady smell of unfamiliar cologne and the pressure of another man’s leg between his, pushing  _ so _ teasingly.

Jean’s lips part easy, his passion mirroring Kim’s. Hands tangle in Kim’s hair, fiddle with his belt, and the nagging voice in the back of his mind is shut off. Silenced.

_ I deserve this _ , Kim thinks, captivated.  _ I deserve to unwind for one night. _

His palms dance over spectacularly toned arms, a hard chest, and his fingers tremble as they work on the buttons of his shirt because Kim wants to  _ see  _ him. Wants to see his skin, and the expanse of his shoulders, and wants to know just how built he is under these clothes.

He doesn’t expect to be stopped, but he is. A firm hand catches his wrist and Kim  _ barely  _ keeps in his sound of protest as Jean pulls away.

“The scars go all the way down,” Jean warns. He doesn’t meet Kim’s eyes, but he angles his head, and his pale eyes hone in on Kim’s loosened pants. “I can make this quick.”

He studies the scarring across his cheekbones and realizes:  _ Measles _ . The word curls up in him and triggers something dark.

Words don’t come easy to Kim, niceties even less, but certain experiences deserve acknowledgement. Living through a pandemic is one of them.

“Scars show character,” Kim says quietly. He pushes down the unpleasant memories surging forward. The flushed children and their lifeless weakness. His own fears during the 20s. Wonders how it must have felt to be one the infected, taken from one’s home and surrounded by all that death and sickness.

“You’ve endured a lot.”

Jean’s expression shifts, equal parts incredulous and something Kim can’t quite name. The grip on his wrist goes slack and Kim’s fingers travel  _ up _ , cupping Jean’s neck and pulling him into a kiss.

It’s gentle for a moment. Layered with gratitude and understanding neither man wants to speak out loud. They're just strangers; only here for one thing. Kim pushes up on his toes to bring their bodies together and the energy stays light for one second more before the kiss becomes demanding. Kim doesn’t know who initiated it. He doesn’t care. It’s  _ good _ . Good in the way driving is good; a vibration flowing through his body.

Jean leads them to his bedroom between kisses. It’s quick work to get their shoes off, quicker for the other man to get Kim on his back with his pants somewhere on the floor. Jean is still unfairly clothed, shirt unbuttoned to his navel, and Kim pulls away from a kiss to correct this.

“Can you-” he groans when Jean palms him through his briefs.

The other man is unreasonably smug, studying Kim’s face as his hand massages Kim’s shaft through the fabric. “Let me suck you off.”

Kim swallows. Wrangles his brain cells to piece together a full sentence despite the  _ sweet  _ pressure on his cock. 

“Yes, but take-” Kim bites back a moan and tries not to buck into his hand as skillful fingers focus on the head of his cock. Tugs on Jean’s collar. “Take this off,” Kim commands, proud that he only sounds a little shaken.

Layers peel off, more than the shirt and briefs, because they’re both yanking clothes out of the way, too eager to touch and see. Kim feels like he’s on a reel, one that’s spinning faster as the night progresses and they surrender to their lust. There are no caresses, no tender words - just rough, open-mouthed kisses and rougher hands and pure satisfaction as they fight to drive groans from each other.

Jean has a nice dick. Thick and warm and it curves pleasantly into Kim’s hand as he strokes it. Likes the way Jean’s lashes flutter when Kim twists his wrist as he comes up.

Not that he gets a long time to do it - they’re moving fast. Jean pulls away and settles between Kim’s thighs. And Kim has just enough time to admire Jean resting on his haunches, bare, his cock a hard line between his legs -  _ God, Jean, you’re a vision -  _ before he thumbs Kim’s weeping tip and guides his cock into his mouth.

“Oh my God…”

Kim’s head falls onto the mattress as he groans. Fists his hands into the sheets as Jean’s warm mouth wraps around the head of his cock and his tongue paints over his slit. Slowly, Jean pushes down, tongue pressing deliberately against Kim's shaft, until Kim can feel himself sliding into Jean's  _ throat _ .

"Holy shit _. _ "

Jean hums around him, smug, and Kim nearly cries out. He bucks hard into Jean's mouth, craving to get that much  _ deeper _ and the other man just opens his throat and  _ takes it _ . And Kim wants to push  _ more _ , but he quickly realizes what he’s doing, and drops his hips.

“Sorry,” he gasps. “That was-”

But Jean just hums again, the vibration cutting off his words and sending a wash of heat up Kim’s spine. The other man pushes a bit more, then pulls out in a slow, slick slide until just the head of Kim's cock is in his mouth. He repeats the motion, shallower, faster, and suddenly Kim doesn’t mind the quiet. 

Kim’s eyes flutter open; he stares at the patterns of stucco on the ceiling and listens to his own breath hitching in the silence. Relishes the sound of saliva on skin, the obscene sounds Jean makes as his mouth works Kim’s cock. Floats on the warmth and pressure spreading from his cock and curling hot in his gut, on his skin, through his spine.

“Jean-” Kim picks his head up and his toes curl at the sight of Jean’s lips around him.  _ Oh fuck _ . “Jean…” he sobs.

The other man suddenly pulls away and Kim has to dig his nails into the sheets to keep a protest from leaving his lips. Jean sits up and wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist. "You doing alright?” Jean rasps.

“Yes," Kim sighs, still a little breathless. Jean's cock looks painfully hard against his leg, precum pooling off the head. Kim licks his lips and wonders how'd he taste. Wonders how’d he look ruined. Meets the other man’s eyes and he can tell by Jean’s expression that he was caught looking. "Your turn?”

“Or I could fuck you. If you’d let me.”

His skin ignites. _ God, it’s been  _ so  _ long. _ He aches for it. Misses watching a man whimper as Kim rides him. Jean’s expression is hungry and smug and  _ knowing _ and any offers of reciprocation fly out of Kim's mind. He knows in his gut that it’ll be a long time before anyone else is this generous - in bed or no.

He can afford to be a little selfish. Tonight is about relaxing.

Kim pushes himself up on his elbows. “Do you have a condom?”

Jean crawls over him - he's all muscle and hard lines and it's  _ hot _ \- reaches over to yank at a nightstand dresser, and holds up a foil square and a small tube.

Satisfied, Kim rolls over to his knees. Tries to breathe through a pang of vulnerability as he settles on his forearms. It would be much worse on his back. He shivers at the thought of holding himself open for Jean, the  _ eye contact _ involved, being on display as Jean gets Kim ready for his cock. It's too intimate.

Kim bites his lip as he hears a cap flip and the squirt of lubricant being squeezed out of a bottle. His abs clench as a hand wraps around his hip.

“Hey, you okay?" Suddenly, Jean's hand loosens, moves so it's stroking Kim's back; his palm tracing the curve of his spine. "We don’t need to do this - it was fun sucking you off.”

Kim swallows around the lump in his throat. It would be the  _ comfortable _ option. But it would also feel like settling. He doesn’t want to look back at this night and regret not taking all he could.

When is the next time he’ll have the chance to do this?

“No, keep going,” Kim tells him. He shifts his weight to pull off his glasses and holds them out behind him; committed. “It’s just…”  _ it's been awhile. _ “Go slow.”

Jean's hand returns to his hip, rubbing circles into his skin as his slicked hand slowly slides a finger inside. It’s uncomfortable at first. Kim goes back to biting his lip, trying to relax his muscles, breathing through it, as his body adjusts to the intrusion and the cold slick-wet feeling and the  _ vulnerability _ of it all.

Jean is slow. Takes his time with lazy strokes and gentle caresses on Kim’s hip. Lets Kim open up around him - and the man has an eye for detail, because he doesn’t add a second finger until Kim is relaxed, breathing ragged instead of tempered, the tension gone from his body. Doesn't add a third until Kim is practically bucking himself on his hand.

“Fuck it,” Kim says, impatient. Jean is still  _ teasingly _ slow, still opening him up by half-centimeters if it weren’t for Kim thrusting his hips back. It’s not enough. “I’m ready.”

“I should have known you were the bossy type,” Jean teases.

Kim bites back a response. He wants less talking, more action. Huffs against the sudden emptiness as the other man's fingers leave him. Then he hears a wrapper opening, a pause, and something thick presses against his hole, just barely pushing in and Kim groans and pushes into it. 

“Fuck,” Kim gasps. It’s a lot, but he’s taken more. Holds himself still so Jean can slide all the way in and  _ God, _ the exquisite  _ stretch  _ of Jean’s shaft against his hole is straining and intense in all the best ways. Kim whimpers as the other man bottoms out with a groan, his hips flush against Kim’s ass and his nails digging into Kim’s skin. 

For a brief moment, it’s  _ too much _ and Kim seizes around him - forcing a choked groan from Jean’s lips - panicking as he tenses and battles the urge to pull away.

Jean gives him time. Doesn’t move or shift even though he’s breathing as hard as Kim is. And soon the sharpness and vulnerability ebbs to a pleasurable  _ fullness _ . To the sweet knowledge that a thick cock is buried inside him.

A hand on his hip squeezes. “Want me to go slow?”

Kim’s voice is a ragged pant, but it’s edged with all the authority he can muster. “Don’t you  _ dare _ .”

In hindsight, Kim should’ve taken his offer, because Jean is _good_. His pace is hypnotic, shocking the breath out of Kim’s lungs with each thrust, and all he wants is _more._ More friction, more heat, more of whatever this man would give him. Kim shuts his eyes and hangs his head and gives into feeling like he’s losing his _mind_.

He used to last much longer than this. Used to be able to make a man  _ beg _ for  _ speed pressure more _ \-  _ anything  _ Kim would give as he rode their cock. But stamina declines with time and he feels like he’s aged fifty years in this job.

_ I deserve this _ , Kim thinks. Just one night where he can be selfish and take without trying. Easy to do with pleasure radiating across his nerves. Heat all over his skin. His entire body  _ shuddering  _ around a thickness that feels like it's splitting him.

A hand cups his ass, pulls his cheek, and Kim knows Jean is  _ looking _ . Knows he’s watching his cock disappear into Kim’s slick, stretched hole and the  _ thought  _ of it curls hot in Kim's gut. The room fills with the sound of their deepening satisfaction, the  _ wet _ noise of each thrust, and the curl of Kim’s nails on linen sheets. Kim surrenders to the sensation, presses his forehead to the mattress as Jean fucks him and sends the heat and pressure in his gut  _ soaring. _

"Are you close?" Kim gasps. "Because I'm so clo-"

The hand on his ass snakes down to wrap around his throbbing cock and Kim  _ sobs _ . The touch is too much - sends Kim tumbling over the edge, nails grasping at sheets, desperate to find something to anchor onto. The man behind him groans, forces a shout from Kim's throat as he bottoms out and makes Kim contract desperately around his whole cock - makes Kim  _ feel _ his girth as Kim cries out and arches.

_Fuck._ _Fuck. Fuck..._

The hand on his cock doesn't stop moving, indulgent strokes pushing his orgasm to its blinding peak, and Kim’s given up on control, on holding himself up - surrenders to the white behind his eyelids and the wave of pleasure across his nerves.

_ Fuck. _

Then he's weightless, cracked pieces of consciousness floating back together. His heart pounds as he pants into Jean’s sweat-drenched sheets. They both stay like that for a long moment: connected, sharing body heat, catching their breath. Content.

_ You’re incredible.  _

“...You're-” Kim shifts and immediately winces, over-sensitive to the thickness inside him. “...Please...”  _ get off _ , he begs breathlessly.

Vaguely, he’s aware of a hand caressing his hip. A hoarse, winded voice speaking.

"I'm pulling out."

Kim grunts in assent. Or not. He can't tell, not when all he wants is to melt into the plush mattress and shut off his brain.

God, tonight was  _ exactly  _ what he needed.

It hurts like he knew it would. He shivers as the other man's cock slides out. Jean is considerate enough to guide Kim to his side, clear of the mess Kim’s left on his sheets.

“...Thanks...” Kim mumbles, too fuzzy-brained and sated to elaborate, and a hand runs down his flank in response.

The mattress squeaks as Jean moves away, probably to clean up and Kim allows himself ten long seconds of buzzing contentment before slowly sitting up. Perched on the bedside table are his glasses, neatly folded. Next to them, a digital clock reads 12:14AM - thirty one minutes till the next bus to the Harborside. He’ll make it.

To his surprise, Jean returns with a clean towel. He’s striking in the light; all firm muscle and brooding features. Kim traces the lines of him intently, regretting not seeing more of his body during sex.

Jean shifts under the sudden scrutiny. Too late, Kim remembers his hesitation from earlier.

“You look good,” Kim says before he can stop himself. The other man doesn’t seem convinced, and because Kim knows things will quickly turn awkward, he blurts, “I think I should get going.”

“Alright,” Jean answers, looking neither relieved or disappointed. He hands Kim the towel and pulls on his pants. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Do you want some water?”

“Please.”

It's work to tear his gaze away from the angles of the retreating man's shoulder blades. If Kim were a younger man, or a more irresponsible one, he’d ask to stay. Ask to spend the rest of the night in Jean's bed. Maybe take off work tomorrow too; indulgent and carefree. Someone  _ else  _ could manage the Homicides Department for one day.

What a nice fantasy.

Kim forces himself on his feet. He aches to lie down, wants the warmth of curling up next to someone, but he can't quite hate this alternative. Everything feels  _ good _ . His soles dig into soft carpet, his limbs are wonderfully loose, and his body hums with afterglow.

Courteous, he wipes his mess from Jean’s sheets and ignores the uncomfortable slick-wet feeling inside him as he searches for his clothes. He humors asking to continue this. Not something unrealistic, but perhaps a _loose_ _arrangement_. The sex was good and Jean is easy enough to get along with. This could be something to look forward to every month or so.

But...Kim knows himself. He's too old and too self-aware to hide behind his pride; he can’t pretend something won’t happen.

Kim has a history of getting attached to his partners. There's a chance it could happen here, even with someone as aloof as Jean. And Kim can't afford another source of stress in his life. Not right now. Kim throws his clothes onto the bed and heads to the bathroom. Already, it's a fight to keep his eyes focused on his destination instead of searching for a head of black hair. Or a flash of pale skin. How nice it would be to stay a little longer, to enjoy his daily cigarette in another man’s bed and wrap around him....

No.

The night is over.

Time to get dressed and move on with his life.

**Author's Note:**

> The characteristic Measles rash is a chain of small pustules and discolored skin. Typically the pustules and discoloration go away after infection. There are cases where the pustules grow to large sizes - these do burst and scar.
> 
> “John Shao” is the fake name Kim gives Plaisance if he plays along with the Paranormal PI bit. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated :)  
> As always, big thank you to my darling beta Didi <3


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